Maturity is retaining a modicum of grace when you do not get your own way.

At one end of the spectrum are those in the throes of lifelong forward thrust, who are focused on goals that turn out to be meaningless, greyhounds at the track who’ve caught the mechanical rabbit of prestige, and at the other end are people with slow-motion tragedies unfolding in their lives.

Ninety percent of the time, this is the solution: Tell it. Cry if you can. If you can’t, sit in a dejected posture, hunched over, and stay with this awhile. It will shift, and become less acute.

I was stuck in staying one step ahead, tightly wrapped, fairly successful with hunched shoulders, filled with fears and tears, exhausted but the ultimate good sport, always cheerful or at least conversational.

If you are blind or have leprosy or can’t walk, one would think you don’t need a cardboard sign to spell out the problem and your desired solution, i.e., to walk. But this would be admitting powerlessness, which was and is the scariest part of getting sober. Finally, if you are lucky, the Gift of Desperation gives you the insight that you’re in no

She looked and sounded like a lot of fun, which I don’t like in a person.

I am slowly making my way from a hypnotized engine of delusion and self-obsession to being a bit more real, a smidge more alive more often.

Yes, I’m odd, endlessly judgmental, secretly antisocial. Can you love me now?

I’d like to know if God gives us points for showing up or simply marks us present.